


Sansan After the Battle of Winterfell

by kenim



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-16 07:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenim/pseuds/kenim
Summary: Sandor and Sansa reconnecting after the Battle of Winterfell. First chapter can be read as one-shot, but more is to come.





	1. Bodies

Everyone had gathered in the great room, a fire flickering in the hearth, offering a small bit of warmth and filling the space with a dull glow. Sansa watched as everyone organized themselves to the best of their abilities. She watched as Gendry spotted Arya from across the room, and ran to her, lifting her off of her feet and pulling her against his chest. Sansa watched as Daenerys walked into the room, looking stricken and defeated, and found Jon, who held her up as she sobbed. Sansa watched also as Brienne and Jaime walked into the room, a little too close for just friends.

She sighed heavily, glancing around the room. Grey Worm had found Missandei, and they were tangled in a passionate kiss. Samwell and Gilly were grinning despite the hell around them, fawning over their young child. Sansa felt the tears in her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to force herself to remain composed. She wanted to feel nothing but happiness for these reunited lovers, but all she felt was envy. Envy and sorrow. 

Sansa excused herself from the room, going largely unnoticed. The bodies outside needed to be cleaned-up. She could do that. She didn’t need to suppress her tears for the dead, so she let them fall as she gripped the ankles of a fallen wight, using all her strength to tug it towards the gates leading outside. “Come on,” she cried, huffing as she dragged the full weight of the thing. She glanced around. There were hundreds more. “Please,” she choked-out, giving another heave. The corpse didn’t budge, and she stared at it long and hard. She recognized it as one of her men, and sobbed again. “Move!” she shouted. 

Nothing happened as she tugged, her strength waning. She closed her eyes as she made to pull the fallen soldier/wight, grunting through her tears. Shock overcame here when the body easily moved with her this time. 

She opened her tear-filled eyes to see Sandor Clegane standing in front of her, easily holding the top-half of the victim and moving it with Sansa’s motions. Without words Sansa readjusted her grip, lifted the wight’s legs and moved towards the exit. Sandor silently followed. 

Sansa led them out of the gate, as far as she could manage, and then gently set the bottom-half of the soldier down. She was surprised at Sandor’s gentleness as he rested the top-half of their fallen friend on the ground. 

Their eyes met and Sandor walked towards her, still saying nothing. Sansa had no words. Instead she threw herself into his chest, sobs wracking her body. She felt his strong arms wrap around her, pulling her close. 

She nuzzled deep into his broad chest. His armor had been removed, and the supple leather was warm from his body heat. The warmth was greatly welcomed. She had given her cloak to a returning fighter who had been shaking from the cold, and the air out here chilled her to the bone. “I’m cold,” she said sadly, unsure of why. 

Sandor’s arms released her, and she was about to frown when she felt herself being lifted into the air. One broad arm was behind her back, the other under her knees, cradling her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head against his collarbone. Suddenly the cold melted away around her, and the utter terror in her heart and mind dulled slightly. 

Sansa lifted her head up, tentatively placing a kiss on Sandor’s scarred cheek as he walked. He stopped when she did, his brown eyes shifting down to her, his heavy brow making him look tired, and a little confused. 

She matched his gaze for a minute, before sinking back against his chest. He carried her back through the threshold of the castle, keeping her warm all the while.


	2. Stitches

She let herself be carried through the gate “There’s still so many,” she whispered sadly, looking at the bodies of the fallen. She didn’t know how they were going to clear them. The air was still thick with the smell of burning flesh, the night still clouded with smoke and ash. She asked Sandor to put her down; she was back among her people, and here she had to be strong. He grunted as she did so, and that was the first time she noticed the blood soaking through his shirt.

“You’re hurt,” she frowned. “You need to go inside, let the Maester take care of you.”

“‘m fine,” he grunted, shifting his dark furs and leather to hide the blood stain. 

“No, you’re not,” Sansa protested.

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” he snapped. “Worry about the people who might bleed out before the damn sun rises.”

Sansa was a bit stricken, the last thing she wanted to do was worry about more people dying tonight. She looked around Winterfell, at the multitude of bodies. How many more would join them before day break? Sandor saw her expression and his own softened, and he sighed, though he didn’t say anything. “At least let me have a look at it,” Sansa said with irritation. “If you don’t do something about it, it’s going to get worse.”

“You sound like your fucking sister, you know that?”

“Good,” she smirked, and the Hound rolled his eyes. 

Sansa and Sandor walked back into the hall, which had begun to clear out in their absence. If the air outside smelled of death, the air in here smelled of it even more so. Only a few remained waiting for their wounds to be tended to, and Varys stood near the doorway, helping shuffle people to and fro. There were several bodies lying on the stone, blankets laid over their beings. Varys told Sansa that most everyone had retired for the night, wanting to get some rest before daybreak. There would be more threats to deal with in the morning, and that couldn’t be done with foggy heads. Varys recommended she get her rest as well, and she promised she would.

Sandor sat himself in a chair, and Sansa pulled one over for herself, the bottom of it shrieking as it scraped the stone floor. Sansa pushed his furs aside, frowning. His shirt was still soaking with a thick red blood. “You’re still bleeding. You need stitches.”

“Would you shut up about it?” he rolled his eyes. Their Maester was seeing to others, those who still needed tending to, and those who were barely clinging to life. Those that remained filled the hall with their grunts and moans, and the occasional cry as the Maester dealt with a particularly awful wound. Sansa could guess Sandor didn’t want to interrupt.

She smiled, “I can do it.”

“Do what?”

“Stitch your wound.”

“You’ve done it before?”

“Well, no,” Sansa shrugged. “But I am a wonderful seamstress.” 

Sandor raised a brow at her, but her disposition remained stern. He opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged his furs to the floor, then slipped-off his leather vest. Sansa watched as he pulled his shirt over his head.

He was muscular. Very muscular. His skin stretched taught over thick muscle, from his broad chest to his abdomen. His chest was criss-crossed with scars, and Sansa couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t pay her any attention, just pushed his hair out of his face and adjusted his seat. He was covered in dirt and blood, and looked worse for wear, but Sansa still found herself a bit attracted to the broken body in front of her.

Sansa grabbed a bucket of clean water and a rag, as well as a needle to thread the material for stitching Sandor up. She wrung the rag out over the bucket, squeezing the excess out before pressing it lightly against Sandor’s chest. He tensed visibly at the touch, his thick muscles going rigid. “Couldn’t have found warm water?”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. She leaned forward in her chair, lightly wiping away the blood around the wound, and applying some pressure against it. She held her right hand against the rag as her eyes scrawled across the myriad of scars covering Sandor’s body. She lifted her left hand, letting her index finger trace once particularly gruesome scar that stood out against his skin, trailing from his left shoulder, across his chest, down to his right hip. The scar tissue was as warm as the rest of him; it was rigid and bumpy as it weaved down his chest. Her body had scars now, too, and she was fascinated by Sandor’s.

Her finger paused where the scar ended, just a half-inch above his right hip bone. She was leaning into him, closer than she had realize. She adjusted herself, sitting-up a little straighter. Sandor was staring at her, not letting his intense gaze waver. She felt her cheeks heat, and her eyes darted to the ground.

Sansa pulled the rag from Sandor’s wound, and he winced slightly. “Sorry,” she apologized, frowning. She threaded her needle, then turned her gaze back to the gash on Sandor’s chest. “This is going to sting.”

“It’s not my first set-of stitches.”

“But is mine,” she said. She hadn’t necessarily meant it as a joke, but Sandor laughed. His lips, usually set in a grim line, were turned-up at the edges, revealing a slightly-broken smile. The sound echoed in the hollow hall, calling a bit of attention to them. Sansa laughed too, her shoulders shaking. “Stop moving!” She commanded, reprimanding him by tapping him lightly with the back of her hand.

“Make it quick,” Sandor said, though a smile still played at his features. 

Sansa rolled her eyes before focusing on the task at hand. Her slender fingers moved diligently as she sewed the wound. She barely had to think about it, it was second-nature to her at this point. She was surprised at how easy it was, when compared to her sewing clothing. Sandor remained still all the while, and she could feel his gaze on her, though hers was too focused to glance at him.

“There,” she grinned, leaning back after she had secured her handiwork with a secure knot. “All done.”

Sandor grunted, “‘m just glad you did a better job at stitches than moving bodies.”

She frowned, and he pulled his shirt back on. “I am just glad I could do something useful tonight.” Sandor cocked a brow, encouraging her to finish her thought. “I was useless this entire evening. I stopped one wight in the crypt, one. At least five times as many of my own people were lost down there.” 

“So you’re not a fighter, fuck it.”

“I’m not anything,” she said sadly, barely aware she had said anything at all. 

“I hope you don’t believe that shit for a second,” Sandor said, his tone of voice harsh, as it often was. Most things he said sounded angry, even when they were not. “Without you we all would have starved to death, or worse, before we even had a chance to fucking fight.” He put his furs back on, wrapping his body in their warmth. 

Sansa smiled softly, wanting to believe the truth in his words. Somewhere she knew he was right, she knew she was a wonderful Lady of Winterfell, but here, now… Seeing all the bodies scattered outside, she didn’t feel like she had done much at all. Sandor was making to leave, having already started for the exit, and for some reason that left a hollow feeling in her heart. “Sandor-- Will you-- Will you walk me to my chambers? I don’t want to be out there, alone, right now…” 

The Hound stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder back at her. She took that as her cue to hurry-up, and she glided across the floor to him, wrapping a slender arm around one of his.


	3. Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for your continued support! I honestly have no idea where I am going with this-- Right now I am using it as an outlet to keep me writing, sooo I guess we will see where it goes from here. I am trying to align events with what is happening in canon, but we will see how that works out after tonight's episode (S8 EP4 in t-minus 1 hour!).

The sky outside was beginning to brighten, the sun slowly climbing over the hill. The sunrise echoed the colours of the dragon fire from the night before, which both comforted and frightened Sansa. “I didn’t think daybreak was ever going to come,” she admitted, taking pause to watch the sunrise. 

Sandor didn’t say anything, but he stopped to watch the sun as well. He was good at that, Sansa thought, he was good at knowing when she needed a response, and when she was just saying words. So often she felt the need to say something intelligent everytime she opened her mouth-- It was nice not to feel the pressure of words that required thought and response.

Her arm remained wrapped around his as they ascended a staircase and made their way through a hall-- Sansa was surprised to see that this area remained largely unscathed. There were no bodies, no blood stains on the walls. It was almost as though the battle hadn’t happened here, as if this were truly a safe space.

She released Sandor when they came to her door, and with a bit of effort she pushed the door open. Varys was seated by the window, and she gasped in surprise. She had not even seen him leave the hall before her, but here he was, waiting. “Lady Sansa,” he dipped his head in greeting, wearily eyeing the Hound as he produced a scroll from his sleeve. “From you brother, Brandon. He regrets not being here to give you the news.”

“The news? What news?” Sansa demanded, grabbing the scroll from Varys hands, her own hands now shaking.

Varys did not say anything, just dipped his head once more before scurrying out of the doorway, where the Hound still stood. He watched Varys leave. “Thank you, Sandor. For--for everything,” Sansa smiled, though her eyes were still locked on the scroll. She feared what was written inside. 

Still not looking from the scroll, Sansa made her way to her bed, sitting on the edge of it and turning the paper over and over in her hands. She took a deep breath, undoing the ribbon and unraveling the piece of paper. She barely registered what it said, only retaining one sentence, “Theon Greyjoy is dead.”

She wailed. That was the only way to describe the sound that erupted from her. She fell from the bed, onto her knees, some mad mix of screaming and crying. She clutched the paper in hands, wrinkling it, her tears blotting the ink. She was shaking uncontrollably, she knew that. Her heart sank to her stomach, the colour draining from her face. She didn’t hear footsteps approaching, but soon she felt a cloak being wrapped around her shivering body, though she wasn’t shivering from the cold.

Theon Greyjoy was dead. He was the only reason she was alive. He was the only one who knew the extent of what she had gone through. Selfishly she wanted him here because he knew her, and did not judge her, he understood her beyond anyone else’s capacity. Unselfishly she wanted him to be here because he deserved better. He deserved forgiveness, and happiness. And he would never get the latter.

A large hand wrapped around hers, pulling the paper away from her. He felt like a lead weight had been removed when she let the paper go, as though she could pretend the words weren’t true. Another sob escaped her, and she felt an arm wrap around her, lifting her off the floor and back to her seat on the edge of the bed.

She blinked her eyes feverishly, trying to look through the tears. Sandor Clegane had not left her, instead he was sat on the bed next to her, an arm wrapped around her to hold her up. She had barely seen him the past few weeks, but suddenly he was here, now, when she needed someone the most. And he kept his harsh words and pessimistic thoughts to himself as she cried, baring her broken heart to him. He had even thought to close her door, so that she might not be heard by wandering ears.

His arm around her made her feel safe, and gave her physical strength when she could no longer hold herself up. Her weight was leaning on him completely, but he did not complain. She sobbed until she no longer could, until she was too exhausted to keep her crying eyes open a moment longer.

When she woke, she was tucked under the covers. She blinked a few times, savoring the seconds of innocence she had before the reality of yesterday came crashing back to her. She rolled over in her bed, and found herself smiling when she spotted Sandor Clegane fast asleep in a wooden chair by her fireplace (which currently had no fire burning). 

She would not have believed he would be the man to help her through the horrors of yesterday, but she did not think she would have made it without his comforting presence by her side. He snorted slightly in his sleep and shifted, looking downright uncomfortable, his large body strewn over the small chair. It was sweet of him, to have stayed with her. To make sure she was okay. It was one of the kindest gestures any man had ever made for her. She feared what would happen to her around other men, if she had become unconscious in their presence. 

Sansa grabbed one of her feather-filled pillows, lobbing it at Sandor. He snapped awake when it hit him, looking all but ready to kill a man, and Sansa laughed. She didn’t know how that sound still existed in her today, but she laughed at his wide-eyed expression and the irritation that furrowed his brow. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Whatever I want,” she smiled, kicking the covers off of her and sliding her legs over the side of the bed. 

Light filled the room, it was at least midday. She was sure everyone would be gathering soon, to discuss whatever was coming next. The thought exhausted her, and her heart still felt hollow following the news of Theon. She was becoming better able to accept death, but his still seemed so unfair to her. She wanted to see his body before it was buried, though was unsure if she would be able to cope.

“You need to leave, I need to great ready,” the humor was gone from her tone as she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Her hair was a rats nest on her head, tangles and dirty. Her clothes were torn and stained with gods knew what. She sighed heavily. “You need to get ready, too. You look awful,” she cast a playful glance at Sandor.

“Big talk, Little Bird,” Sandor grunted as he rose to his feet, cracking his neck. 

She walked across the room, opening the door for him. “Sandor,” she said tentatively, and he turned to face her. Slowly she reached her hand up to him, placing her palm on his scarred face. His unburnt cheek turned a pale pink, and he tried to pull his head away, though her hand followed. “Thank you.”


End file.
